RIP Sparky
by Montana-Bob
Summary: Another story inspired (or perhaps brought about) by a real life event in the author's life. Stan buries his beloved dog.


_Chunk!_

The shovel blade dug into the rich dark Colorado soil behind Stan's house. Kyle overturned another shovelful of dirt next to the small grave they'd been taking turns digging and paused to wipe dirt and sweat from his forehead.

Stan looked up from where he was sitting cross-legged on the ground, shifting uncomfortably as he cradled Sparky's body, wrapped in his favorite blanket on Stan's lap. Kenny and Butters stood off to the side, staring somberly at the ground. Kyle waited patiently until Stan's tear filled eyes met his.

"Almost deep enough?" Kyle asked quietly, leaning on the end of the shovel to rest for a moment.

Stan leaned over to look. "Maybe just a little deeper."

Kenny stepped forward and took the shovel from Kyle. "I got this for a while, dude." Kenny took over digging, and Kyle sat down on the grass next to Stan. The shade from a small pine tree just behind them fell across their shoulders.

Butters sat down on Stan's other side. Stan looked at him for a moment, and then pressed his face against the lump in the blanket he was holding and fought back a sob.

"Aww…" Butters said. "It's okay to cry, buddy." He put his arm around Stan's shoulder, and that finally unleashed the floodgate he'd been holding back since this morning. Stan cried hard while Kyle wrapped his arm around him from the other side and he and Butters gently rocked him while Kenny dug.

"At least he went easy," he finally managed to choke out. Kyle stroked the hair on the back of Stan's head while he listened. Stan took a deep breath and went on. "He slept for hours in my lap right up until the end. Then he woke up for a moment and kind of cried once…and then he was just...gone."

Kyle nodded, and for a few minutes the only sound was Kenny digging. A light breeze carrying the scent of freshly mown grass and coming rain wafted by them.

Kenny stood the shovel upright in the dirt pile they'd made and sat down. "I think that'll do it Stan."

Stan raised his head from his forearms and wiped his eyes on the sleeve of his tee shirt. He inspected the hole they had dug and replied, "Yeah."

He rose to a kneeling position and carefully lowered the towel wrapped bundle into the hole they had dug. He had to lean in almost to his shoulders to reach the bottom; Kyle kept a hand on his shoulder comfortingly, ready to grab him in case he lost his balance. Stan sat back a moment later, folding his empty hands in his lap, not sure what to do next.

Kenny leaned forward to grab a single fistful of dirt from the pile and crumble it into the hole. The others watched him for a moment and followed suit. It took almost fifteen minutes to refill the hole this way and pat the dirt down smooth and flat again. None of them spoke a word while they worked. Butters produced a colorful packet of flower seeds and spread them over the new grave, crumbling a little more dirt over them afterward.

"That soil's pretty wet, Stan…but go ahead and water that every day for a while until those flowers grow, okay?"

Stan nodded gratefully. "You bet I will. Thanks, Butters."

They sat together, contemplating the fresh mound of dirt before them.

"Remember the time we were making s'mores in your backyard on a campfire?" Kyle asked. "I think we were like six or seven years old. Sparky ate all the graham crackers, and we had to melt chocolate and marshmallows together without them? Cartman was _furious _about that."

Stan laughed, then looked guilty. "Yeah…or that time he chased Mrs. Tweak's cat into the storm drain? It took us the rest of the afternoon to get him to come out of there."

They sat for a while, recounting other Sparky stories while the shadow of the pine tree Stan had chosen to bury Sparky next to grew longer. Storm clouds were gathering overhead and thunder rumbled in the distance when the four finally stood up for one last look at what they'd accomplished this sad afternoon.

"It's gonna be weird," Stan said. "Not waking up in the middle of the night and having him sleeping next to my feet." Kyle nodded, having seen Sparky there many times over the years during their sleepovers. "The last few months, he couldn't get up on the bed by himself anymore and I had to help him. He'd always scratch at the bedpost when he wanted up, and then he'd look guilty when he did it, like he was sorry he was bothering me. I'm going to really miss that."

That comment seemed to hit Butters hard. He bowed his head and barely managed to rasp out, "I know, Stan. He was a good dog."

"No," Stan said firmly. "Not was. He _is_ a good dog. In fact—" he knelt down at the head of Sparky's grave. "I'm going to put a marker right here, and it's just going to say 'Sparky' on it, and today's date, and underneath it the words 'you're a good dog'. It's going to look really nice next to those flowers you planted."

Kenny nodded as the first drops of rain began to fall. "I was going to say I'd give you a hand with that. But…I bet that's something you want to make by yourself, isn't it?"

Stan nodded. "Yeah…it kind of is I guess? But thanks, Kenny." The rain pelted them harder for a moment before stopping altogether. Thunder rumbled as they looked at each other awkwardly.

"Come on," Kenny said, nudging Butters with his elbow. "I'll walk you at least part way home."

Butters gave him a weak smile. "Thanks, Kenny. We'll see you tomorrow, Stan." Kyle took a step closer to Stan and they watched the two walk off together.

"Hey dude," Kyle said as they walked toward Stan's garage. Kyle was carrying the shovel they'd used to dig Sparky's grave. "Are you okay?"

The rain started again, just a light mist now. "Yeah. I am. It's weird, you know? I'm sad about Sparky, but I'm not _depressed_ about it. I guess…maybe it hasn't really hit me yet."

They reached the shelter of the garage. Kyle leaned the shovel against the wall just inside the door. "It will, you know. Eventually." Kyle's expression told Stan that if it happened while he was still around, that would be okay. "Do you want to go inside and play Nintendo or something?"

~0~

_A/N – _R.I.P_., D.C. – May 1999 – June 11, 2013. You were given your name by my supervisor back when I used to deliver newspapers beginning at 3:00 in the morning. You were only about eight weeks old and too little to be left alone while I was working, so you rode shotgun with me in a crate while I drove around throwing newspapers out the driver's side window. He said your initials stood for 'Drop Cloth' because of how the white on your nose and paws made it look like you'd been dipped in paint. The name D.C. somehow fit you perfectly._

_That's his picture above, in the cover image for this story._

_He was one of a kind, a perfect 12-pound lapdog who loved to watch TV beside me and sleep next to my pillow. For a little dog, you sure could snore, and I'm going to miss hearing that, and your happy bark whenever I came home. The other two dogs are wandering around the house tonight like they've lost something. Happy trails, D.C., until we meet again._


End file.
